Abyss of Winter
by Baron von Riktenstein
Summary: It's the end of the world, and Russia's among those struggling to survive. Likely Temporary Title. Possible interpretation of the Mushroom War. No pairing. Future Character Death.


The air of the night was frigid, and not a star could be seen in the wasteland that had been his home. The world had been hit with a meteor and plunged into a war almost simultaneously. Nothing could possibly make it out of this apocalypse unscathed.

Russia – no, he wasn't Russia anymore. The place didn't exist – stared into the foggy sky, a mere shadow of his former self. The other so-called nations were no better off. Even Switzerland and the other famed "neutral" countries weren't spared the disaster. Life on this earth was ending. Humanity would surely be wiped out.

When the meteor hit, even the most optimistic could not find a silver lining. The catastrophic incident caused the lives of millions, even billions of people Fellow nations were blown off the face of the Earth. Those that hadn't died from the impact had been severely maimed. There was no plausible way to achieve a good outcome for anyone.

America's... _Alfred's_ childish optimism shattered quickly and left behind a shell of a man. His sanity deteriorated to the point that he became a babbling mess. All those movies and simulations, he'd said, hadn't even begun to prepare him for something so horrific. It wasn't as if he was surprised at that. He only meant nothing was ever supposed to be this Hellish.

At some point, to fight off this threat, and for some even each other, there had actually been experiments of modification. The results ranged from mere bio-weaponry to absolute monstrosities and abominations. The living creatures that crawled out of the laboratories were anywhere between pitiful and horrifying. The worst of them had once been human beings that held so little of who they were. Used as instruments of a losing war, many were slaughtered and strewn across a battlefield among their kin. Eventually, just like the humans, the supposed survivors had begun to disappear.

As for the humans, there were scarcely any left. The fact that some of the nations still held on to existence was the sole indication that there were populations left. But they wouldn't last long. The radiation poisoning the Earth and the ruthless eradication of their kind by the _alien_ army would see to that.

Throughout all of this, the two that were faring comparatively well were North and South Korea, whose people had been pushing out weapons and mutants, in their hopes to save humanity. They were failing, and even now they were fading away like the rest. Clearly, if anything remained alive after the war cleared, it wouldn't be humanity.

The only earthly being that may remain, Ivan thought, may be the Seasons. General Winter was going stronger than ever. But with humans disappearing, they too would change in form.

Ivan's mind wandered as he felt himself withering away. No longer the large mass that he was, and with his people almost entirely wiped out, he felt nearly as a construction of flesh and bone. _How could it possibly have gotten this bad? _His heart scarcely beat anymore, and he wondered if, perhaps, it had fallen out for good this time. He couldn't tell.

The chill of the air worsened. He turned his head, looking for something familiar. A part of him hoped for Death. He hated this feeling of worthlessness, this agonizing battle to go on. Yet he was terrified of dying alone. A familiar face, no matter who it was at this moment, or a friendly stranger's face would be calming.

In the distance, he spotted a silhouette, as the air grew even colder. Perhaps it was his dearest ally coming to see him off. The thought wasn't as terrifying as it had once been. He gathered the energy he could muster, calling out for General Winter, but his voice was far too weak. It was doubtful that anyone could hear him. As long as he could see the shadow, he needed to call for him and continued to try and do so.

"Winter!" he cried. He heard his voice crack, and wished instead for Death. He had never wanted to be this weak, never wanted to struggle through Earth's end. Most certainly, he never wanted anyone to see him in this state, whoever it was.

Though his voice couldn't have reached the ears of the silhouette, footsteps approached. They seemed to be running, but Ivan couldn't tell anymore. Despite his wish for death, perhaps he was just hopeful for companionship. Surely, no one was coming to his side. Certainly not Winter. This was not the sound of Winter approaching.

The cold enveloped him as someone sat beside him, hovering over him. "Winter?" he uttered and tried to open eyes he did not remember closing. But this was not Winter. He seemed like Winter, with gray-white hair and the cold aura surrounding him, but it wasn't him. His beard and broken glasses were enough proof of that. Whoever this man was, Ivan possibly imagined, he seemed an equal mix of relieved and _scared_.

"Can you hear me?" the man asked with a shaking voice that didn't match his appearance? Ivan wondered how he could sound so strong, alive even. "I'm Simon. What's your name?" the man pressed, urging him to respond with a desperate voice and a trembling hand.

"Ivan," he managed to choke out.

Simon smiled and seemed to say something else that Ivan wasn't quite grasping. Despite the cold of his skin and the air surrounding him, Simon made Ivan feel warm somehow. Warmer, at least, than he had felt in a very long time.

"I'll take you someplace... safer. Is that okay?" The man hesitated on the word, but perhaps anywhere was better than the outdoors. Ivan nodded, or tried to, and Simon lifted him off the ground. If Ivan hadn't noticed how much he was deteriorating, it was clear now. He'd lost so much of himself that this supposed mortal could pick him up with little effort. Russia used to be so _big_. Now look where he was.

Simon barely struggled, though his expression suddenly seemed so severe. Maybe it was determination. Before Ivan could think on it, he blacked out for what was at least the sixth time that day.

When he awoke, Simon was nowhere to be seen. It appeared that the man had carried Ivan to the inside of a run-down building. A toy store, perhaps, though it was hard to tell in the scarce light. All Ivan could gather was that something plush was resting on his stomach, and a weathered cloth was folded beneath his head.

Although Simon could not be seen, a voice could definitely be heard. Ivan hoped that it was his. What he was saying couldn't be understood. The subject matter didn't really matter to Ivan anyway. All that he could decipher was an utter desperation.


End file.
